Naqsh Faryaadi

Aur bhi dukh hain zamane mein mohabbat ke siwa

Rahatein aur bhi hain wasl ki raahat ke siwa. ~Faiz Ahmed Faiz

(Other pains exist than those that love brings, Other joys than those of lovers’ union.)

Urdu poetry is reminiscent of a childhood not so long ago. I grew up, conditioned to hate the sappy tales of romance it brought along, ridicule the concept of the shaa’ir surrendering his being to the mehboob (beloved) and literally snort at the idea of wallowing in the misery of heartbreak. It is amazing how much has changed. What then seemed like an obligatory study of a dying script is something I connect to and identify with as a culture I should have felt for a little more while I had the chance. Even after ten years of studying the language, I still could not read a paragraph as fluently as I would have had it been in English. I couldn’t skim through the lines to know what it was about; I had to make an effort to join the alphabets in my head minding the ‘zer-zabar-pesh’ and create sounds. Rediscovering Urdu through poetry is mystical. The imagery, the articulation and frankly, just the fancy words give the language a feel so dreamy that you go into a thoughtful pseudo trance just by reciting a shair inside your head.

Hazaron Khwahishen aisi ki har Khwahish pe dam nikle Bohot nikle mere arman lekin phir bhi kam nikle. ~Ghalib

(The thousands of longings are such that over every longing I would die. Many of my wishes/regrets 'emerged'-- but still, few did.)

Does the couplet above not make you think of every tiny unfulfilled wish you ever had? Or how you ignored to revel in the happiness of those that did come true?

Nahin tera nasheman ,qasr-e-sultani ki gumbad par, Tu shaheen Hai, basera kar, pahadon ki chattanon par. ~Iqbal

(You don’t have to make your nest on the dome of Queen’s palace, Oh Eagle, you are royal, choose to reside on the peaks of mountains.)

Or this. Does it not inspire you to break through shackles of mediocrity telling you how you are destined for grandeur and things more majestic?

Jee dhondhta hai phir wohi fursat ke, raat din bethien rahien tasavur-janan kiye hue. ~ Ghalib

(My soul still seek those nights and days of leisure, When we would idle away, picturing the beloved in our head)

This of course, strikes a different chord with each of us. Nostalgia is always all around. We find different things to reminisce about. Memories are always beautiful. Our mind always finds ways of preserving the best of even the worst times. It could be the memory of a happy childhood symbolised by a picture of you running across the playground; the resounding laughter that plays in the back of your head, reminding you of people you’ve not heard of since long or even the first time you fell in love, simplistically and beautifully. Whatever the memory be, this shair does not go without taking you down memory lane, on a wholly personal journey which never fails to wrinkle your face with a smile.

Phir ji meñ hai kih dar pah kisi ke pare raheñ sar zer-bar-e minnat-e darbañ kiye huʾe. ~Ghalib

(Again it's in our inner-self that we would remain lying at someone's door having placed our head under a burden/obligation of the kindness/favour of the doorkeeper)

Urdu poets believed in love; self-consuming, destructive love ending in surrender of self to the beloved. Let the love possess your being, give yourself up entirely. As a concept, it may be terrifying but this poetry glorifies it. In most cases the love was unrequited, it came with misery but it was the sweet sorrow of a love that consumes all senses.

Nikalna khuld se adam ka sunte aʾe haiñ lekin bahut be-abru ho kar tire kuche se ham nikle. ~Ghalib

(We have often heard of the ousting of Adam from heaven, but the dishonour with which I was ousted from your haven was worse)

Recite anything a few times. It makes you want to fall hopelessly in love. It even makes you want to love and not be loved back, just to taste rejection; to add the missing dash of drama in your life; to love like never before.

Sham-e-firaq aab na pooch, aai aur aa ke Tul gai dil tha ke phir bhehal gaya, jaaN thee ke phir sanbhal gai. ~Faiz Ahmed Faiz

(Ask no more (about) the night of separation; it came, and passed. The heart got diverted again; life found its feet again)

Only then will you be able to appreciate the pleasures of love and the poetic bitter pangs of separation.

Dair nahiñ haram nahiñ dar nahiñ astañ nahiñ baithe haiñ rah-guzar pah ham ghair hameñ uthaʾe kyuñ. ~Ghalib

(Not a temple/church, not the Ka’bah/ a holy place, not a door, not a doorsill--we've sat down by the roadway-- why would the stranger(ghair) cause us to get up [and leave]?)

And of course, the irreverence towards the beloved; the constant urge to irk them just so you get their attention. Every shaa’ir has a different style, and different themes. They have underlying meanings, subtexts and undertones. My teachers tried to convince us, despite the constant imagery of the mehboob’s rosy lips, that the poet was talking about being in love with God. Mehboob-e-haqiqi, as they call it. I am not qualified enough to comment or state my opinion on any of it, but my interpretations lead me to believe that these poets, like Ancient Greeks, revered passion. Thus the ultimate quest in every man’s life was the transcend above it all and transform from being a lover to a true deewana.

Seven things you should probably try out- Delhi

Another collaborative post with @MyOwnKryptonite, for BLAH.

Find the original piece here.

The Iced Tea at Cha Bar
Tragically, this haven for any tea-loving bookworm, as part of the Oxford Bookstore, is being shifted out of its famed location at the Statesman House (at least, we hope it is, it’d be a damn shame if it shut down). A few months ago, however, Cha Bar served, without a doubt, one of the best Iced Teas in the Capital. Offering a variety of choices (Strawberry, Passion Fruit, Orange, Mint, what-have-you), this freshly brewed glass of absolute joy, topped with a generous helping of ice, was just what any Delhiite would need in the scorching heat of the city’s summer.
What makes it delicious is the perfect balance the brewers (who, as far as we’re concerned, are geniuses who eat sunshine and excrete rainbows) manage to create between the bitterness of a fresh brew of tea (not the packaged powder kinds) and the sweetness required in a cool drink. Not many fresh-brewed iced teas in the city can do that.
Conveniently enough, the Bar is located within the Oxford Bookstore, which only adds to its already astounding amount of charm. Bring a friend, grab a table, order a couple of Iced Teas, perhaps a snack or two (try the quiches) and you’re good for the next couple of hours.

Veracruz Fish at Sanchos
The sad thing about Sanchos is that it is probably the best place to get Mexican food in and around Delhi, or at least in the top five, but due to the ungodly construction in Connaught Place happening right outside its entrance for a good semi-year, the first few crucial months of Sancho’s operation were clouded in empty tables and low-customer rates. From what we’ve heard, though, Sancho’s really stepped up right after the completion of the construction which finally allowed people to enter it without having to rummage their way through several metres of mud and grime. In any case, I wish them all the very best.

Getting to the point, the food. Once you’re done with the complimentary drink they offer to every customer (it changes everyday, we were served a chilled tomato juice with some tabasco, herbs and a very nutty flavour provided by the cucumber and dry fruits put into it), go ahead and order the Veracruz Fish. The whole set-up is only enough for one person (though we’ve been known for pretty much ignoring the gluttony part of the deadly sins, so it may be two), and comprises the fish, grilled to perfection with JUST the right mixture of herbs and spices to make your mouth water just from the brilliant aroma, Mexican rice with refried beans, a variety of sauces and dips and a corn-on-the-cob. The whole platter pretty much adds up to one of the most satisfying meals you’ve ever had. If the dryness of it doesn’t appeal to you, pair it with a Kiwi Martini and the masterpiece is complete.
The whole place is a little much on the budget front but its worth every penny.

Karims-Nayaab Maghz Masala/Shahi Tukra

Karim’s being on the list of things to try out in Delhi is no surprise. Whatever you read, whoever you ask, this will always be one of the top recommendations for Mughlai food. You probably might not like to visit it if you’re vegetarian . Though not the classiest ambiance or the most polite staff, Karims manages to be a huge crowd puller.
You will, of course try the usual Mutton Burra, Raan, Tikkas and the likes, but what you might not have tried is the Nayaab Maghz Masala. In simpler words, brain curry. Agreed, it doesn’t sound very appetizing and we were hesitant enough to try it out ourselves, but it is addictive. It is soft. tender and leaves a delicate, warm flavour that makes you want to not stop eating it. Try it with the butter naan;they go well together. It is an absolute treat for your taste buds, not in the ‘explosion of spices in my mouth’ kind of way, but in the ‘I don’t want to stop eating this heavenly thing’ way. Even if the thought of sheep brain rumbling in your tummy is disturbing, believe us it is worth a try.
The Shahi Tukra is a simple bread pudding which,more often than not, isn’t well prepared. On the day’s that it is, the delicious crispiness of the bread blends with the creamy flavour and the nuts on top. If you manage to savour the bites before gobbling up the whole thing, it has an aromatic milky flavour that teases your mouth; very subtly sweet and very delightfully royal.

Karim’s is always a double thumbs up, although you might want to stick to the better branches: Jama Masjid, Nizamuddin and Noida, we’d say. If you’re an early riser the Nahari and Paaya (trotters),served at the Jama Masjid outlet in the mornings, are to die for. Happy, spicy, mutton binging to you.

Pastries at Wengers
Again, we probably don’t need to tell you about this because if you’ve lived in Delhi, you would have heard of the absolute delight that is this grand old pastry shop in Connaught Place. Try the Shami Kebab, it is legen-wait for it-DAIRY. (Get it? Because they have dairy based products. What? Yes, we know the Kebab has no dairy in it. Alright, never mind.)

Our recommendation is you go for the Beehive Bun. Excessively creamy, cinnamon-y, and a disastrous mess as you eat, it is worth every blob of cream smeared across your face. The soft, sweet flavour and the feathery texture of the dessert will make you smack yourself for not having tried it before. You could indulge yourself in their range of Mousses, ranging from Chocolate to Strawberry to Passion Fruit. Try their Lemon Tarts, they do not disappoint. If you’re not one for experimentation, though, even a simple chocolate eclair pastry seems twice as nice if made at that magical fun-factory of bliss.

What we wouldn’t recommend is trying to finish their big cup-of-chocolate-pudding, not unless you’re in a group of four people or more. It looks tempting, but trust us, that is a LOT of chocolate, even for hogs like us. (To give you a scale of reference, we once almost finished the Waffle challenge at Mrs. Kaur’s in Khan Market, but more on that in another review)

But all deliciousness aside, go to Wenger’s because, after 80 years of existence, the shop manages to retain the aura of the old days. It’s like a wonderful time machine, except the time machine is now filled with sugar and chocolate and delicious food.

We fail to see the downside.

The Chicken Dum Biryani at Max Mueller Bhavan:

The walk down Haley Road, from the Barakhamba Road metro station to K.G. Marg (where Max Mueller Bhavan is located), transports you to a different era. Colonial style houses and old high rise buildings, give out the hauntingly nostalgic feel that surrounds Connaught Place and around. In summers, the brilliant yellow Amaltas trees just add to the ambience. You cannot help but slip into a reverie.
Max Mueller Bhavan is a German cultural institution and that is probably the extent of my knowledge about its workings. What I do know very well is the menu at the tiny little Café Goethe.
It’s a bunch of picnic tables put together and looks like any regular cafeteria, none too fancy, often without a working fan. But the food. Oh the food.
Take our word for it, and before anything else order yourself a tall glass of their ice tea. At 25 bucks a glass, it’s the cheapest, most refreshing drink this summer. Not your regular Nestea, this is brewed to perfection with just the perfect blend of bitter sweet and garnished with mint.
At a place like this, a biryani won’t be your instant choice, but try it out. The spicy mix is not like the other biryani’s you would have eaten. To be honest, it’s nothing like any biryani I’ve ever eaten but it is downright delicious. It has a wholesome, melt in your mouth feel to it and coupled with the ice tea, you have what constitutes a meal that makes your taste buds tingle thinking of it.

Go for the lovely walk, the quiet chatter and the thoughtfulness that surrounds but mostly go for the cheap food. You will fall in love.

Pav Bhaji at Mayur Vihar, Phase-II

Tucked away in an inconspicuous corner on backside of the very popular Phase II market, this may not be the most hygienic of places but the lip smacking food makes up for it. The perfect hurried meal, it is spicy, buttery and the pavs are soft and delectable. The spicy aroma from the huge tava, while the man cooks it, tingles your taste buds. The anticipation makes you salivate. When you finally get to eat the butter laden dish, it does not disappoint. Two rickety tables out in the open make up this joint but evenings in the neighbourhood would be a lot less satiating without it. If you don’t believe us, try going to the shop anytime after 7. A neighbourhood favorite, the brilliance of this place is impossible to access except at odd timings.

At 35 bucks a plate, it makes for a pretty wholesome meal, and a very delicious one at that.

Swagath

We’ll make it as simple as possible, you haven’t had South Indian food till you’ve had their Sea Food. And in Delhi, you haven’t had South Indian food till you’ve had it Swagath. It’s all over the place, Noida, Malviya Nagar, GK (from what we know, look it up).

We’ll cut to the very delicious chase.

Walk straight in and order the Prawn Gassi with Appam. The gassi, essentially, is a coconut curry spiced to perfection, so the prawn gassi, in essence, is prawn in coconut curry. But then, food isn’t just its ingredients, is it? The brilliant flavor of this dish is anything from ordinary. Its only the best thing to happen to the South Indian food scene in Delhi since we discovered the Paper Dosa (don’t smirk, you’ve been there with your family patting your own backs for stumbling upon that thin, paper-like rice dish of magical awesomeness).

Of course, the best thing you can possibly order with the Gassi is a plate of Appams or Idiyappams. The Appam is a soft, water based rice pancake that seems to disappear into nothingness inside your stomach, so you can have as much of it as you want and never get full. The Idiyappam has a similar effect, except the pancake is in the form of a bunch of water-based rice noodles pressed together. Coupled with the Prawn Gassi, these make for, dare I say it, the perfect meal.
But that’s not all. Top your meal off with a tall, chilled glass oof Sol Kadi, a remarkably delicious Kokam based coconut drink enriched with only the best spices the south has to offer. Mustard seeds, chilli, you-name-it.
Once again, Swagath isn’t all that light on your wallet, but its twice as light on your stomach and fifty-magical-ka-unicorn-zillion times better on your taste-buds than most other things you’ll eat in the city. We’d say go for it. Now. NOW!

The Times They Are a-Changin’

Social networking as an agent of change.

While on the 20^th of April, like all regular Wednesdays, we were scurrying off to our tasks, oblivious to the rest of the world, a few amongst us gathered for a cause in a refreshingly odd manner. The 'Please Mend The Gap’ initiative organised a flash-mob to sensitize Delhi Metro travelers towards harassment of women passengers. The thirty people who participated, and others who promoted it, heard of it through Facebook. They then tweeted about it using #flashmob and #delhi as hashtags. Though the turnout for this first of its kind initiative wasn’t huge, it was a brilliant start.

A fortnight ago, twitter users saw #freefaizan trending. Started by Amnesty International India, this campaign sought to free a 14 year old boy detained for stone pelting in Kashmir. He was eventually released on sympathy grounds after garnering support from micro-bloggers worldwide, a majority of whom directed their tweets to the state CM, Omar Abdullah.

Not quite so long ago, social networking fueled one of the most influential revolutions in modern times by garnering international support and organizing the protests. The Egypt Revolution had a palpating presence online to the extent that each of us would feel the pain of every martyr slain, anxiously await any news and finally rejoice in the victory.

Social Networking has officially arrived as a way of life; as an increasingly potent weapon waiting to be harnessed and used for bringing about a new phenomenon every day. It is, indeed, mind boggling to even picture the impact and presence social media has had in our lives since the last few years. Unknowingly and unconsciously we have molded ourselves to fit in; to get used to it as it slowly creeps into every aspect of our daily lives. It has now gone well beyond pictures and status messages. Marketing, as we knew it, has been redefined. With social media consultancies mushrooming everywhere it is evident how every company wants its share of the client’s attention. For things as small as summer internships to college fests, networking and publicity was never so simple or direct.

Social networking has made the world fit into this tiny shell with huge networks, which connect each to the other. It is paradoxical, how on one hand we lie holed up, glued to our computers while simultaneously building relationships of trust with people from not just different parts of the world, but different social strata and cliques. Social networking brought about a lot of changes; none compares to the change in perceptions.

But if what it has taught us were to be summed up, it would be just the one thing: to never be complacent. It has taught us to raise a voice when dissatisfied and make ourselves heard. Complacency and procrastinating die when making a change is as simple as a few clicks. If you want change, chances are a majority of the others do too. With the power of social networking today, change isn’t tough and it isn’t far. Today, I know I can.

The Life and Death of My Best Friend!

Never written something together with anyone before. Not our best but whatever. :)

Ananya

Gambhir is the Cyrus.

http://crispybabelfish.blogspot.com/

Rostam

It has been a while since I’ve had guests over. I cannot remember the last time someone visited me. It comes with being old I guess, this ostracism. But Cyrus; good old Cyrus; he is different. For a while there, he had me scared not having called on this old man in a while. I almost thought he was avoiding me, like the others. Like them, he too, wanted nothing to do with the lonely man. Zahra’s death hit me hard. I don’t meet people anymore. Strangers; they scare me. I cherish the few friends I have, strive to keep them close. I fear abandonment.

Cyrus is staying over again tonight. Hes been here a while now. Dinner time was always his favourite. I smile at him, beckoning to help himself with the lavish spread I’ve laid out. Clumsy old Cyrus, he has a piece of paper stuck to his lip. Tch. How did he not realise it? Must be the age getting to his head. I lean across the table and gently flick it off.
Old age, you sly bastard. You get us all don’t you.

Surprisingly, Cyrus is awfully quiet tonight. A jovial old fellow, this man’s roar could be heard all across the hallway in our college dorms. I try making conversation but I think he doesn’t feel up to it. He’s barely eating too. I remember how he once hogged an entire four course meal without even so much as a burp.

I sometimes feel like quite a bore, ranting on and on about the old days and Zahra but that is all I have left; memories and a resounding emptiness in my life. I cling on to whatever I can get. My eyes moisten, thinking about my beautiful wife and how she would hate the loner I’ve become, when suddenly the sound of shattering glass brings me back.

Poor Cyrus, he dropped his bowl of potatoes on the floor. He is weak, probably sick tonight. He wants me to feed him, the pitiful soul. Times like these are probably the ones I live for, making me feel useful and indispensable. I like being there for this weak little creature that was my friend. No no, don’t get me wrong. He still is my best friend. He listens to me talk about Zahra all day long. We talk of days gone by and times that will never come back. Oh yes, we spend plenty of hours sitting here, reminiscing. Occasionally, he chides me for living in the past displaying remnants of his old boisterous self. I chuckle to myself at these times. Oh how the mighty fall. My dear old Cyrus used to be the boss everywhere. Whatever we did, whatever happened, he decided. Now he’s weak, crippled by the wrath of time. I have to care for him; decide for him; nurse him. I’m glad he came back to me. He couldn’t have gone long without having someone there for him. Even now he can’t give in without a protest here and there. But my best friend Cyrus learned to live with me, under my rules.

Sometimes he acts like a child refusing to finish his meals and now he wants a cricket bat to play with. This man is losing his marbles, I say. I struggle to make him finish his meal and he gives in. Once again, the flash of the dominating Parsi he once was, comes and goes. I pity him some of the times. At others I feel glad he has me. Ah, the clumsy old geezer fell asleep in his chair. Looks like I have to carry him to the bedroom and tuck the poor thing in. This is what has become of Cyrus Irani, the dreaded proud Parsi who refused to acknowledge anyone superior. I looked at his face, calm and expressionless. Sleep my friend, its the only respite from life.

There, you got him too. Old age, you sly bastard.

Cyrus
I stared across the table at the heaving, gyrating mass of flesh that had once been my friend. Rostam stood a good six-feet tall about two feet away from me. The smile on his face was that of a man satisfied with the way things had panned out for him.

Even as I struggled to break free of the roped binding my limbs together and tear through the tape stretched out across my face, I couldn’t help but think if “friendship” was too generous a term to describe whatever little contact Rostam and me had shared over the last few years. It wasn’t any particular incident I could tell you, no falling out of any kind. With time, as it is with any set of friends, me and Rostam had grown apart.

The giant of an old man leaned over me and put his hand to my face. As his fingers casually stroked the skin under my nose I felt shivers run down my spine, engulfing my body in chills and quivers.

He pulled at the edge of the tape, his cold hands making their way under the stickiness of the adhesive. In a cold, brutal pull, he tore the tape of my face, stealing away a considerable amount of tiny white hair that covered my upper lip, the sign of a respectable, ageing gentleman.

It isn’t impossible to breathe through your nose, but after hours of having nothing but my nostrils to provide air for every part of my body, feeling the air brush across the inside of my mouth felt like a luxury no less than feeling the finest wine at our ancestral home smoothly making its way down my throat.

Luxury is relative, I suppose. Maybe, at the end of the day, the poorest people are the happiest.

I’d scream with the pain of the tape stripping my face of all its hairy glory, but I’m exhausted from an entire day of writhing and shaking, trying to break free of this prison, with no food or water to ease my suffering. I was simply too tired to try and live. Up to this point, he had captured my person, disabled my physical being. He hadn’t broken my spirit.

Now that I’d given up, he’d imprisoned my soul.

He filled a spoon with the most foul-smelling pile of potatoes I had ever encountered and reached his old, shaking hand out to my face, pushing me to put that vile excuse for food in my mouth. Had my father known of my eating rejectamenta unfit for even the foulest of beasts, he’d have beaten my arse silly for not having protested this treatment, in captivity or otherwise. The Iranis were better than that. We were a nobler breed of Parsi. We ate only the finest food, drank only the finest wines and walked on only the finest marbles. I suppose with a rope the width of a small snake tightened around your limbs, you’re only as noble as your captor enables you to be.

I opened my mouth reluctantly and felt a lump form in my throat. Cyrus Irani was about to shed tears. I bit down on the spoon, more to stop the crying than anything else, and swallowed the entire bite of potatoes, gulping it down with ferocity.

Before I knew it, Rostam had another spoonful at the ready, with a distinct gleam of insanity in his eye.

I don’t know why I did it; I don’t know what pushed me to it, but I swung my head around like a madman, hitting Rostam’s hand as i did so, spilling potatoes all over his floor.

The next thing I knew, something hit me right across the face. It must have been the bowl. I fell to the floor, shaking in unbelievable pain. Soon, the pain in my face was replaced by the one in my ribs from Rostam kicking them repeatedly.

“You think I WANT this?”, he screamed, “You think I WANT to hurt you?”

I think, or would like to, that somewhere in my head I chuckled, because all I could think was “Yes, Rostam, I do believe you’re enjoying yourself just a little bit there”.

I didn’t realise, in my brief moment of dark hilarity, when Rostam brought the cricket bat to his aid. As he brought it down on the side of my arm, I felt my skin breaking under the pressure, warm blood soaking the gleaming white of my shirt.

The blows kept on coming, one after another, till I was too used to the pain to care anymore. Rostam pulled my frail, lifeless figure and dragged it along the floor, shoved me onto a chair.

I felt the blood dripping off the edges of my skin onto the floor. It warmed my skin, though it made me a little colder with every passing drop.

Soon it would be over, soon all the life would be drained out of me, and I would no longer be a slave to his demands, neither body nor soul.

As the lifeblood poured out of my being to the floor, I felt myself going dizzy. The world seemed to fade to black, the voices around me seemed to buzz into silence and nothingness.

It was almost as if I was drifting off to sleep. At my age, I realised, it was pretty hard to tell the difference. Old age, you sly bastard.

Plank

So the other day me and my friend attended an acoustic band competition at this college fest and we realised how it was such a simple thing to come up with a name for a band.

You just put together one or two random words and say them in a cool deep voice and presto, you have a smart-ass name for your otherwise shitty band. I was sitting in the auditorium and the first two things I could see were, White Wall and Plank. Now if I name my band after either of these two completely random things, I'm bound to sound pseudo-intellectual and people will think of a deeper meaning behind it and come with a truckload of bullshit I could never have imagined for it. But hey, thats the way it is. Reminds me of the Emperors New Clothes. No one really gets it, everyone pretends to be impressed.

Long time ago, when this fad started everything with an unconventional name sounded really smart and pretty darn cool . Now its almost like everyone tries hard to be different which defeats the basic purpose and they end up being the same. Get it?

So when was the last time you heard something named conventionally? Yeah, I don't think I can remember either.

Who were you?

Remember watching Hollywood movies on school cliques and wondering how, surprisingly, no Bollywood movies ever focus on that; maybe just questioning if we do have cliques at all. Its strange how all Indian kids get classified into three basic categories: the bespectacled nerds, the ambitionless ruffians and the plastic snobs. I remember writing this whole long piece for my school magazine once about how ‘My School Has Cliques’. My better sense prevailed since back then I did not have much censor (or sense) and quite a few would have been offended. But now that we’re out of school we all have our fancy delusional stories to tell about how cool we were in school. In everyone else’s head we were who we always wanted to be. Cool like that. I might write about it today, since exams are over and I’m planning to be a dedicated blogger.